Buttermilk Pie
by Silverr
Summary: Ruth and idgie set up the Whistle Stop Cafe.


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**Buttermilk Pie**  
_by silverr_

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The building that used to be Papa Threadgoode's general store had been closed up since 1922, when he gave it back to the bank. Plenty folks in Whistle Stop had always thought it was a shame for such fine building in such a good location — end of First Street, across the street from where the train stopped four times a day, two ut and two back — to just hunker there getting weedy, but nobody thought it needed to go back to being a general store again, either. You didn't need a washboard or a spool of thread that often, and anyhow when you did, you probably could borrow from a neighbor. If none of your neighbors had what you thought you needed, you either did without or went into Birmingham.

But one thing that folks need just about every day or two is to eat. And sure, most everyone had a little garden and some chickens, and for a while there was the Pig Club, so most people had enough to feed themselves if they had a mind to, but if you were growing more than you could use, or if your chickens were suddenly being extra productive, it was good to have a place you could bring your extras to and maybe trade for something you didn't have the ingredients for or the inclination to make. You can't put eggs by, after all. And for all the things the Baptists and the Methodists get shouting about, feeding the hungry is something they can agree on. Nobody wants to waste food when some are going hungry.

So, where was I going with this? Oh yes. So, after Ruth had Buddy, it was decided to turn the old general store into a cafe, although nobody could remember, later, who had come up with the idea. Still, it don't hardly matter. When you have an old friend who's been around for so long it seems as though they've always been there, always been your friend, it's not important who said howdy first.

Anyhow, so Papa Threadgoode went and talked to the bank, and pretty soon Ruth was standing in front of that old store, joggling Buddy on her hip. "Well," she said in her soft drawl, as Big George and Idgie and Grady started prying the rotting gray boards off the windows, "it is a good location."

Problem was, the inside was a bushel and a half of mess. The front door fell right off its hinges when it was opened, the roof had leaked onto the abandoned shelves and bushels, and half the windows were broken. There rabbit and mouse droppings everywhere, with the generations of birds nesting up near the ceiling having made their contribution as well.

"I'm surprised nobody broke in here," Idgie said, picking up rusted cans of green beans and okra

"They would if they knew there was food in here," Big George said.

Ruth sighed. "Well, I guess we better get started."

It took three days to sort everything out, to decide what to burn and what to keep. The bushels were good for nothing but kindling, but the counters and the shelving were made of good Alabama oak. Ruth paused in her sweeping to run her hand along an empty shelf. "I'll bet we could turn some of this into tables and benches," she said.

"I can ask Grady," Idgie said. She was loading the rusted cans into a box. "Must be at least one or two carpenters at the Wagon Wheel who owe me money." She held up a can with a mouse-chewed label. "Think this stuff's still good?"

"I don't know," Ruth said, "I don't know how long canned goods keep." She looked at Sipsey. "What do you think?"

"If they ain't swole up," Sipsey said, "they probably good."

Idgie guffawed. "Hey, let's get ol' Scroggins over here to bless em! Maybe he'll work a miracle, and they'll multiply like the loaves and fishes!"

Sipsey hissed and shook her head; Ruth pressed her lips together, but it was as much a smile as it was disapproval of the blasphemy.

Slowly, it all came together. Floors were swept, peeling paint was scraped, broken windows got replaced, and Idgie and Big George took all the cans over to Troutville without a blessing. The long dogleg storeroom behind the counter became the kitchen, and two holes were cut in the back wall for iceboxes. Ruth painted letters on the front door, and she and Sipsey planned the menu. For breakfast they'd offer eggs, grits, biscuits, bacon, sausage, ham and red-eye gravy, and coffee for 25 cents. Lunch and dinner would be a dime more, but they'd offer choice of entree and three sides, beverage, and dessert.

"Fried chicken, pork chops and gravy, catfish, chicken and dumplings, or a barbecue plate." Ruth, who had the nicest handwriting and the best spelling, had borrowed a fountain pen to make a copy of the menu to post in the window for the benefit of those who could read. "Biscuits, cornbread, creamed corn, fried green tomatoes, fried okra, collard or turnip greens, black eyed peas, candied yams, butter beans or lima beans."

"Don't forget dessert!" Idgie hollered from the back yard. She and Big George had used stones, bricks, and old pieces of metal grid that they'd scavenged from the railroad yard to build a fire pit and a barbecue grill, and they'd taken the leftover lumber after the inside tables were made to make benches and tables for those eating outside.

"I'm not," Ruth called back. "Blueberry pie, peach pie, pecan pie, sweet potato pie, lemon pie, peach cobbler, cherry cobbler—"

"Peach pie _and_ peach cobbler?" Idgie asked from the back doorway.

Ruth paused, making her special _Lord Give Me Strength face._ "Some like one, some like the other," she said patiently.

"I wonder how many people like both?" Idgie asked with a wicked grin. "Folks who really love peaches, huh?"

Ruth gave her a look, then went back to her copying.

The finishing touch was the sign up just under the peak of the roof: Whistle Stop Cafe. Fine Food at Fair Prices.

The plan was for Sipsey to do all the cooking and baking, with Big George in charge of the barbecue.

"Once word gets out, people gonna be getting off that train four times a day," Idgie pointed out. "It'll be a stampede."

"Maybe you'd better let me help in the kitchen," Ruth suggested gently to Sipsey.

Sipsey bristled. "I kin handle it!"

"I know you can," Ruth said, "but with you and George doing all the cooking, and Idgie doing everything else, what am I gonna do? Just sit around looking pretty?"

"Aw hell, you'd be no good at that," Idgie said quickly, but the tips of her ears turned red.

"You got a child to take care of," Sipsey said, but when Ruth pointed out that she was barely able to pry Buddy from his godmother long enough to nurse him, Sipsey agreed to teach Ruth her secret recipes. "I kin teach you too, Miz Threadgoode," she offered.

"Nah," Idgie said. "I'd be all thumbs in a kitchen. Plus, I gotta take orders and keep the tables clean during business hours." She elbowed Ruth. "How do you like the sound of that? We're gonna have _business hours!"_

"Business hours." Ruth repeated softly.

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Idgie was right: after a couple of weeks they were so busy that the four of them were going non-stop from 4 am 'til closing.

It was all due to Sipsey's cooking. People started saying that it was the best food in Alabama, that her dumplings were so light they would float in the air and you'd have to catch 'em to eat 'em. Pretty soon people were getting off the train just to buy a pie — a whole pie! — to take home, and most nights men from the train yard would come over just before closing to buy up whatever food was left and take it back to the yard.

"We hardly getting any use out of that icebox," Idgie said one night as she locked the door and pulled down the shade that said CLOSED.

"Keeps the milk cold," Ruth said softly from the kitchen.

Idgie tipped up the chairs and took out the broom, but instead of sweeping she leaned against the door frame, watching as Ruth poured milk into a saucepan, then measured in some spoonfuls of vinegar.

"Why you addin' vinegar?"

"To make buttermilk."

"Shouldn't you be adding, I don't know, butter?"

Ruth smiled and shook her head. "That's not how you curdle milk."

Idgie made a face. "Oh, you don't need no vinegar for that! Just leave it sit out a couple of days."

Ruth laughed. "That's spoiled milk. Not the same."

"Why not?" Idgie put the broom aside and propped her elbows on the counter, leaning toward Ruth as if daring her to do something. "Don't buttermilk taste off, like spoiled milk? Why aren't they the same?"

"Well," Ruth said, stirring the pan of buttermilk, "It's like people. There's sour people, and there's spoiled people."

"Not if you're talking about my sister Leona!" Idgie whooped. "She's spoiled and sour!"

"Hush," Ruth said. She set the pan of buttermilk on a low flame in the back corner of the stove and stirred it thoughtfully. "She's not sour."

"She sure is spoiled, though," Idgie said. When Ruth didn't respond, she came around to peer over Ruth's shoulder. "So what is all this buttermilk for anyhow?"

"Sweet tea buttermilk pie," Ruth said.

"I don't see no sweet tea." Idgie said. She slid her arms around Ruth's waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. A sisterly, affectionate gesture, if anyone was looking.

It still took Ruth a moment to answer. "Getting to that," she said, reaching up for the tea tin. She turned off the stove, pulled the gently steaming pan of buttermilk toward her, then measured in a heaping spoonful of leaves.

"Hm," Idgie said. "Now it looks like a bunch of ants fell in and drowned."

Ruth put the lid on the pan, then held onto the edges of the stove with both hands, as if bracing herself.

"You okay?" Idgie asked.

Ruth closed her eyes and nodded. "Sure."

"Now what?" Idgie asked.

"Now what what?"

"Now what happens with the buttermilk?"

"Oh," Ruth opened her eyes. "Now it has to sit for an hour. Then I'll strain out the tea, add the rest of the ingredients for the filling, stir it all up, pour it in a pie crust, and pop it in the oven."

"All that? You're gonna be up almost all night!"

Idgie was still holding her, so all Ruth could do was give a small shrug.

"How come you making this pie?" Idgie asked.

"Ladies in my momma's bible study used to mention a woman who was known for making something called sweet tea buttermilk pie," Ruth said. "Sipsey said she'd never heard of that, so I thought I'd try to make one and see if we like it. We could add it to the menu. Give us something to fall back on for variety when there's no peaches or blueberries."

"We'll still have sweet potato pie, and lemon pie, and pecan pie," Idgie said quietly. Her lips were next to Ruth's ear. "And cherry cobbler."

"Not everybody likes those," Ruth said quietly back. "Some people want something different."

Idgie's arms held a little tighter, and she spread her hand so that her fingers fanned over Ruth's aproned midriff.

Ruth made a small soft sound. "Maybe," she said, her voice shaking a little, "maybe you should keep me company for the next hour or so, so that I don't fall asleep before I finish making this pie."

"That's probably a good idea," Idgie said. Her breath stirred the stray wisps of Ruth's hair. "It'd be a shame for such good buttermilk to go to waste."

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A few hours later, as dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, Idgie and Ruth sat in one on the Whistle Stop's booths. Between them was a plate with a few crumbs of pie crust, and two forks arranged neatly side by side. Ruth's apron hung from a hook in the kitchen. Her hair was loose, and she wore an old bathrobe.

"Well, that was really something," Idgie said. "I ain't never tasted anything so delicious my entire life."

"Yes," Ruth said. When she slid her hand over Idgie's, interlacing their fingers, you couldn't hardly tell she hadn't slept more than ten minutes since the previous morning. "It's a keeper."

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~ The End ~

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_posted 3 Nov 2019; revised 4 Nov 2019_


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